Classic Poem

When white dew descends on the hundred grasses,
mugwort and orchid alike wither and die;
then, green green by my four walls,
they come alive again, spreading over the ground
The summer cicada has hardly gone silent
when autumn crickets sound their willful cries.
The rounding cycle never ends,
yet each thing differs in the nature it bears
Each has its season, its own proper time;
why should pine and cypress alone be prized?